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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990711">Diverged in the Yellow Wood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyrichard/pseuds/getoffmyrichard'>getoffmyrichard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>rhapsody in viridescent gold [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Child Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elvish, Erestor POV, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Glorfindel POV, I SERIOUSLY FEEL THE NEED TO SAY AGAIN THAT THIS IS GOING TO BE A VERY VERY VERY SLOW BURN, Language Barrier, Light-Hearted, Like Father Like Daughter I guess, M/M, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Parent-Child Relationship, Rivendell | Imladris, Self-Indulgent, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Third Age, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Worldbuilding, You Have Been Warned, accidental parent acquisition, but Erestor doesn't recognize it yet bc he's smart but also so dense, do u yearn. bc glorfindel does, erestor gets odd chapters and glorfindel gets the even ones, like. really slow. like glaciers might move faster than the Erestor/Glorfindel ship, literally just so that we can get both sides of the pining, oh yeah bud, playing fast and loose with canon, r u a dense genius. bc erestor is, this entire fic is just a background so that i can write cute family fluff okay, this is going to be from BOTH perspectives</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:08:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,394</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyrichard/pseuds/getoffmyrichard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-framing of Nothing Gold Can Stay, from Erestor and Glorfindel's points of view.</p><p>Unfortunately cannot be read as a stand-alone. My sincerest apologies to Erestor/Glorfindel shippers who saw something new in the tag and got excited.</p><p>Updates...on occassion</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erestor &amp; Original Character, Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>rhapsody in viridescent gold [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1218</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>as promised</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The trip to Mithlond was lovely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor’s group of escorts this time around stayed out of his hair and let him work on the final adjustments to the trade deal Lord Elrond was sending him out to finalize. He finished long before the journey was over, without a certain golden-haired Captain bothering him every second of daylight there was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arrival in Mithlond was also a delight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor had an informative chat with Círdan about a group from the West who arrived in the guises of old men and sent at the bequest of the Valar. When they first arrived in the year 1000 of the Third Age, Círdan had sent notice to all elven kingdoms, but it is only now, four years later, that Erestor--and through Erestor, Elrond--is able to acquire more information. These Istari have yet to come to Rivendell’s halls, although patrols have reported sightings of these odd travelers. He knows Glorfindel would appreciate this additional information as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stay in Mithlond was a true pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elves here are all good conversationalists, but they also understand the necessity--nay, the need--for focused work. It is what Erestor likes most about staying in the Grey Havens. As well, he likes being able to peruse the shelves of the Mithlond library at his leisure as Círdan and his own advisors check over the contract from Rivendell. It is peaceful. It is bliss. If Erestor was not so devoted to the running of Rivendell--and if were not so sure it would collapse without him and Elrond--he would be tempted to stay for quite a while longer. But staying a year as agreed had thrown Glorfindel into a pout, since apparently the ellon cannot bear to be left alone--and hardly that, since Erestor knows he has other friends aside from him--and thus for the sake of peace in Rivendell, only a year shall he stay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The things he does for his people, really.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The trip back is when it all goes to shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say he had expected this wouldn’t be a completely inaccurate statement. Erestor has built an entire career predicting and preventing things that could go wrong. It’s in his nature to ponder worst case scenarios. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps that is just Erestor’s pessimism coming out. He knows not all travels are terrible. Statistically, most are relatively boring. Perhaps a few stray groups of goblins to slaughter, or ruffians to drive off lands, but that is the standard. Erestor should know, since he reads many of the patrol reports of travelling groups like his own. Even Glorfindel in all of his shining glory manages to get through his travels unaccosted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposes it is only his ill luck that had led his own patrol into an ambush by orcs, that had resulted in a terrible laceration to the side, and that had resulted in his separation from his comrades as his horse ran and his comrades were unable to follow him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he is here, in the middle of half familiar woods so close to home, dropped where his horse--an ill-trained beast--had bucked him off.  The horse is long gone now. Erestor has no idea how long it will take for anyone to find him, if he even is traceable. He resigns himself to dying on the doorstep of home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The irony of it burns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the fighting, the war, the pain...and he shall die in the forest, alone. It is a more peaceful death than he expected. He knows he clings bitterly to the loss of Eregion, to the memory of watching Ost-in-Edhil fall as his people were cut down with it. He knows he sometimes gets lost in seeing King Gil-galad fall under Sauron’s hand, the feeling of his king’s blood on his hands, pouring out from the burns he had taken fighting the monster. He knows he had carried the expectation that he would die much the same--in fire, and in blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he is here: in sunlight, among the green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Tis not so bad, he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An insistent poking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor supposes it would be too much to ask of the Valar for him to die in complete peace. At least it is not torture, he assures himself, before cracking open an eye to see what has decided to prod him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not know what he expects, but it is certainly not an elfling child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor looks at the child’s ears--spotting the longer helix, the slightly lowered point--and deduces the child must be female. The girl--by Varda, she cannot be older than twenty!--is looking at him with a curious wariness. Her skin is the tanned copper he has seen in the Silvan folk of Greenwood and her hair is the pale moonlight hue more common in the Sindar of Lothlorien. Her eyes are a hue of honeyed gold, the likes of which Erestor had only known of the Vanyar. Confusing coloring and an indeterminate heritage, but he does not need to know her parents to know the appearance of a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A child, Erestor thinks, bewildered, and everything in him says he must settle the child down, feed her his rations, bring her to safety before anything can harm her. He begins to heave himself up before pain lances through him and darkness is all he knows.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When he comes to, it is to pain once more, and though the spots of black across his eyes disrupt his vision, he can still feel. There is a scratchy sensation on his skin, a slight padding underneath his back. Erestor’s fingers find the rough weave of wool cloth, and realizes the girl-child must have laid him on this. There is movement, and a touch on the back of his head, a firm push telling him to lift his head, which he does. He gets his second look at the girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is startling again, to see her youth, and it crushes him to see past it. She is gaunt and starving; there is a sharpness of her young cheeks standing out where all of Erestor’s knowledge insists she should be plump with health. The clothes she wears once might have been fine, but are so threadbare that they are almost translucent in the sun. What sort of life has she been living, out here? Where are her parents? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Child--” Erestor tries to say before he feels the rim of a cup on his lips and the water against his mouth. The thirst overtakes him and he drinks. He drinks his fill and is helpless as the child lays his head back down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Child, where are your parents? Why are you here?” he asks, but she remains silent. She dips a woven piece of cloth into a pot of water and begins to dab at his wound, causing him to hiss in pain. He realizes she has stripped him of his armor and his clothing and wonders how in the name of the Valar he had missed that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Little one, do you know where we are? Can you understand me?” Still, she does not respond. She inspects his wound with the seriousness of a trained healer and then stands and walks away. Erestor strains to keep his eyes on her, seeing a flash of an elven blade as she stabs a tree multiple times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An elven blade. That means she must have been gifted such a thing. Perhaps from one of her parents? The more he thinks of that--the theoretical caretakers of this elfling--the less likely he thinks they exist. After all, what elf would dare let their child wander the woods like this, so obviously alone and starved? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is she living here, alone? Where did she come from? How did this happen at all?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, most importantly, who is she?</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The days pass, with the girl caring for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor learns much about her. She is smart, even if she cannot speak Sindarin. Communicating in gestures like the dwarves has been an interesting experience, but he feels her thought process plainly. She is focused on survival, constantly asking him if he’d like food, or water, or warmth. She is fiercely independent, and does what she wants without hesitation, disappearing and reappearing at will, despite how it throws Erestor into a paralyzed panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cares for his wounds in a manner both familiar and hesitant. Like she had learned of how to treat injuries like his, but never practiced it? She sewed up his wound with nothing but a brooch pin and thread from his clothing. How did she know such a thing, despite being so young? She cleans him when he defecates, which is mortifying on several levels even if she did treat him with the same clean professionalism as any Rivendell healer would. Is she used to this? Taking care of someone injured? From whom did she learn these skills from? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor’s memories of children tell him this is not usual. He remembers Elladan and Elrohir growing up, of Arwen as well, but they were more concerned with mastering speech and running without falling. This child has no such concerns. Every movement she makes is confident and sure. Erestor imagines that if she really has been alone and survived this long, she must have learned to be so sure of herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about that for too long makes his fëa ache, and by the time these questions have finished running circles around his head, Erestor is exhausted enough to fall asleep again.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>She sings often, he notices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absently, as if not realizing she’s doing so, with her songs fading up and down with volume with the amount of concentration she uses during other tasks. The language is not one he knows, but the songs she sings are fascinating and beautiful. She has only her voice to work with, but she keeps time with ease, without any accompaniment to establish a beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The songs are all unique. Sometimes quick and cheery, sometimes slow and mournful, sometimes sweet and high. He has not heard her sing something twice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where did she learn all of that, he wonders? Who taught her these songs? Who taught her this language that even he, in all his years, cannot identify or understand? Surely, she couldn’t have come up with all of these songs on her own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, he thinks, wouldn’t it make more sense if she did? Who would have taught them to her otherwise? If someone was there to teach her, would they not also care for her? Erestor has not seen any hint of any other person in these days that have passed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is she really alone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not anymore, he thinks. He, although injured, is here with her now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says, when she hands him a cup of water. She nods, like she now does when he says that, as if she understands the sentiment of it. That gives him hope to teach her. Erestor pats himself twice on the chest. “Erestor.” he says. “Well met, child of the woods and song, I am Erestor.” Followed by another chest pat to press home the point that he is naming himself. He then points to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl looks confused, tilting her head in confusion. She makes her hand-sign for ‘no’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor pauses. No name? She truly has no name? How young was she, when she was lost? How did she survive in the wilderness like this? No, he cannot believe it. A child not old enough to be named would have never survived so long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She must have a name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He points at himself, “Erestor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She points at him, repeating his name. He smiles, happy she’s able to speak in his tongue with apparent ease. Perhaps she would pick up Sindarin faster, if he started doing games like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He points at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She points at herself. “Erestor,” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor signs ‘no’, because that is incorrect, and then he sees the small twitch of her lips. She knows what she’s doing, he realizes. She’s playing with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Troublemaker,” he says, in a tone so blatantly fond that it startles him. He is still frustrated that this is the extent of their communication, but he is patient. He is willing to teach, to return the favor of care she has shown him. The girl reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, consolingly, but the grin on her lips belies her true feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A troublemaker, for sure.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It is later that evening, as she cleans him despite his protests and then cleans their campsite, that he decides on the name that has been brewing around in his head for a few hours now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cýrlinnaril,” he calls her, and she knows it’s her name. He knows that she knows. She repeats it to herself several times, and as she does, she smiles a growing smile until it is so bright and brilliant that it makes her look like the child she really is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has named her--given her a personal name like a true parent should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if she would let him take care of her too.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor wakes and Cýrlinnaril is not there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He panics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What happened? Where is she? She is always there when he wakes. Has something happened to her? He knows these are the woods right outside Rivendell, but that does not mean they are safe. Their survival thus far has been a miracle and needs only to last until he’s healed enough to get them both to safety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is not here. Where is she, out there? What if she needs him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is struggling upright, calling her name, when she emerges from the treeline to the south. He has a moment of relief at the sight of her, before the tension of her shoulders alerts him to the fact there’s something wrong. She practically sprints to his side and Erestor grimly picks up his sword, ready to fight so that she has the chance to get away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To see Glorfindel emerge is a surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Erestor!” the returned elf says, just as Erestor says: “Captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor doesn’t quite know what he intends to say next, but Cýrlinnaril touches his shoulder gently and sheepishly signs a yes or no question at him. He signs ‘yes’. That is some luck she has, to find a patrol so close to them. Really, it is a bit suspicious how convenient it is until he realizes that the patrol must have been out looking for them specifically. That Glorfindel must have been out looking for him specifically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s...touching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And lucky, for that means they can go back home, to Rivendell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to think about what will be necessary to settle Cýrlinnaril there. He will have to finally accept Elrond's offer to move to a larger set of rooms--which will delight his liege-lord--so that he can set up a nursery for her so that she can be close enough that he can help her in all things. Erestor shall also need to arrange time for lessons in both speech and writing, and--though this is farther in the future--he must secure a teacher who will educate her in the various instruments. Perhaps Lindir would be willing to teach her the harp. Erestor thinks Cýrlinnaril would enjoy singing and playing at the same time. He shall also need to talk to the seamstresses to get working on a set of children’s clothes He believes some of Arwen’s old clothes still exist, but the twins were well known for ripping through theirs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pats his head, and Erestor looks at the wild girl he's come to care for in these past few days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she disappears.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>can u believe i waited literally one hour after the clock hit midnight to post this like some sort of desperate loser</p><p>me @ me: girl, ur so embarrassing omfg</p><p> </p><p>no song in the fic but if you want background music, i recommend Liquid Light composed by Jessica Curry<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-n73wumXRYE&amp;list=OLAK5uy_l6iGZoX3yE9QJ7b84s1Mocir0HJCH00II&amp;index=3</p><p> </p><p>happy Hanukkah/Chanukah to those who celebrate it! (I know I'm a bit early, shh)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Glorfindel yearns, aches, and deals with a stubborn, irritable child. Also there's a girl called Cýrlinnaril here too.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In his heart of hearts, in the more secret part of his soul, Glorfindel nurses his affection for Erestor in silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not love, he knows this. It could be, but it is not. It is affection, plain and simple, formless enough to be platonic if he refuses to think of it any other way. Glorfindel does nothing with it, because he is satisfied with being friends with the brilliant, sharp-tongued, focused, kind, irritable, and slightly mischievous counselor to Lord Elrond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is content with this, in Rivendell. A Captain again, but this time a Captain of the Guard. It is a good life here. Peaceful, and slow. Sometimes boring, but Glorfindel is fine with that. He’s lived through enough interesting times to know he prefers this boring, slow life. When he feels too bored, he can go to Erestor and between trading barbs and quips and hearing the other ellon speak, Glorfindel can forget all but his own delight of having such a dear friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not love, and he is content.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Erestor goes missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel is Captain of the Guard and he has a duty, he has responsibility. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows this, yet he still insists on a search and goes out on as many expeditions as he can, refusing rest and food to search harder, farther, longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he begs whatever Valar may be listening, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please let him be safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Five days pass and then. . .</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A elfling girl-child in the woods, appearing as if from the trees themselves and shocking the entire patrol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A child?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the Trollshaws, their own backyard?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is thin, starving, and Glorfindel knows he is not the only one who’s heart aches to see an elfling so hungry and wary. It is a sight not seen in the Third Age--these times of relative peace--but the older of them in the patrol remember what it is like to witness the tragedy of children at the mercy of the world. He holds them back from overwhelming her, but knows that none of the patrol would dare leave this child alone, now that they know of her existence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he and Lagron and Astordil follow the girl into the woods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lagron </span>
  <span>tries to hand her trail rations, as if she were a rabid animal instead of a child. She gives him a cutting glare so reminiscent of Erestor that Glorfindel laughs even as his heart squeezes in anxiety for the lost man. As they travel, she checks on them, as if to make sure they’re keeping up. As if she doubts their ability. That has not happened to Glorfindel in quite a while, that doubt. Since he first met Erestor, he realizes. It is quite entertaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cýrlinnaril!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel’s heart seizes at the voice, even as the girl takes off, and he, right on her heels. She is fast as she breaks into a clearing and rushes to Erestor’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor--pale and injured and exhausted--but alive. Blessedly alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank the Valar</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Glorfindel thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank the Valar.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl takes off into the woods, Glorfindel hears the desperation in Erestor’s voice when he calls the girl’s name, and he does not hesitate to follow in pursuit, plunging into the green without quite realizing he is doing it before it is done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in a long while, Glorfindel finds himself exerting himself in a pursuit on foot. It is clear that this Cýrlinnaril knows every inch of the Trollshaws, and she uses the environment to her benefit. She takes ruthless advantage of her small size to go use natural obstacles that Glorfindel struggles to pursue her through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loses her half a league into the woods and wonders at how often she’s been pursued to lose even him so effectively. That is a dark thought, so he quickly brushes it off to track her down. He finally finds her circling a tall oak in a considering manner, as if she has forgotten that she was running from him and is instead searching for a tree to climb. Glorfindel is not too small of a man to admit that he takes advantage of her distraction to grab her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She writhes like a snake in his grasp, twisting in ways Glorfindel was not sure bodies could twist. Tired and desiring to see Erestor again, Glorfindel simply secures his arm around her waist and sets off, tracking his own path back to whence they came.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is, of course, when she pulls the knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the grace of Varda, her aim is atrocious and he’s able to get the blade away from her, but she howls like a feral cat at his theft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cýrlinnaril,” Glorfindel says, in the same scolding tone he uses on new trainees. She pauses, which almost surprises him. He risks shifting his grip to hold her aloft by her underarms to get a good look at her. Copper skin, silver hair, golden eyes--a precocious elf child made from precious things whose first reaction to stab him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are definitely Erestor’s,” he informs her, although Erestor prefers his words to do the stabbing while the child must make do with a knife. She spits at him. Glorfindel can’t help but find her apparent disdain of him amusing. It has been so long since anyone has treated him with anything other than reverence or coyness--Lord Elrong and Erestor aside--that her blatant disrespect is delightful.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Only Erestor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Cýrlinnaril sulks by Erestor’s side while throwing him dirty looks and Glorfindel finds it adorable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to her?” Erestor demands, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. She turns into his side, positioned carefully so that she’s supporting him rather than leaning on him. A conscientious thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She tried to stab me,” Glorfindel says, and he knows that sounds weak coming from him--the Hero of Gondolin, the fearsome Balrog Slayer--and from the unimpressed look Erestor is giving him, Glorfindel can tell the injured elf is thinking something scathing he is too polite to speak aloud in such young company. “She knows these woods well,” he says. “How long has she been here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea,” Erestor answers. “She does not understand Sindarin, or Quenya. I’ve been communicating with her with hand signs. She’s had blankets and pots and simple weapons, but in these five days I have yet to recover enough to see where she resides here.” He shakes his head. “In the Trollshaws. How close she was to home, and we did not even realize it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of them did, but Erestor does love to blame himself for things out of his control. Glorfindel almost reaches out to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but the child glares up at him and that gives him pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should set off immediately,” Erestor continues. “I must speak to Lord Elrond--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And receive healing,” Glorfindel interjects, and Erestor has the audacity to glare at him for bringing up such a trivial and minor thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I must speak to Lord Elrond,” he repeats emphatically. “About finding out who she is. And if it is possible to foster her as my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Foster?” Glorfindel asks, and pushes ideas of fatherhood and Erestor and fatherhood with Erestor out of his mind before his pathetic heart can latch onto them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah. It is too late.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart greedily grabs onto the idea, but he has no time to ponder such things now, not when Erestor is still speaking to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Erestor says. “If she has no family, which I do not believe she does, I intend to care for her, as she has cared for me. I have named her, and thus it is my responsibility.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And only Erestor, Glorfindel thinks again, would remember the practice of name-right, from the times of the Kin-Slayings. It is an old practice, where those of a house and family would grant an adrift elf a new name and thus take them into a new house, to provide family as poor recompense for those that were lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor hesitates, something that Glorfindel has not often seen over the course of their friendship. “A daughter,” he says slowly, tasting the word on his tongue, and then he smiles a slow, sweet smile that makes Glorfindel’s heart skip a beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces himself to look away before he does something monumentally idiotic and looks right at his favorite lieutenant, Astordil, who’s giving him a look that’s so blatantly unimpressed with him that it’s like looking right at Erestor again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Captain!” Glorfindel hears, and he turns to see Noendîn approach from the east. They give a short salute and wait for Glorfindel’s nod before speaking. “Captain, there’s an entire homestead just half a league away. It’s in a clearing that no scout can remember coming across, though we patrol this area regularly and we know these woods well. The homestead itself is well-developed and well-maintained.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How well?” he asks, because there’s only so much a lonesome child can do--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a mud house with a clay tile roof,” Noendîn says, “And a root cellar with ample stores for winter. There’s a well and garden and even a rabbit farm. I saw a sheep but it ran before I could pursue it. I think--” Here they pause, their gaze drifting over to the mysterious Cýrlinnaril. “I think this child has been alone for quite a while. I found no evidence of a second person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel himself looks over in surprise, wondering if Erestor knew this. Glorfindel looks at Cýrlinnaril and when she sticks her tongue out at him, he smiles at such a display of childishness. Whatever horrors she must have lived through, he is glad to see that she still has some innocence left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had guessed as much,” Erestor murmurs. “I do not think she could have come from any of the elf kingdoms. The birth of a child would have been spread to all known corners. My suspicions are that she is as Lord Elrond is, half-elven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel nods slowly, tracing Erestor’s process of thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A human mother, if that’s the case,” Glorfindel says. A pregnancy among any ellith would have been noticed. It is more likely that an ellon had bound himself to a human woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With her skin tone, I would say she has Harad ancestry,” Erestor continues. “The hair is Sindarin, of that there is no doubt.” He brushes a hand over Cýrlinnaril’s head to indicate the short, snowy strands, but she doesn’t seem to notice, as her wide golden eyes trace the squad of soldiers ambling about curiously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As fun as making assumptions is,” Astordil interrupts, a hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword. “Perhaps this is a conversation that can be had on the road? Moving our dear counselor closer to the Hall of Healing?” A pause, then, drawled: “If that’s alright with you, Captain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel wonders how he deluded himself into thinking he gets any respect around here, with a lieutenant like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>For her lip, Glorfindel gives the feral cat-child to Astordil, but perhaps for once in her life,  Cýrlinnaril behaves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not quite the result Glorfindel was hoping for, but he knows how hilariously uncomfortable Astordil is around kids, so he privately feels petty enjoyment at the memory of her grimace when he first ordered her to take the child and ride with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made the decision to camp for the night, despite being so close to Rivendell, on the recommendation of Rosteth, their combat healer. The injury that Erestor sustained, she had said, was well-tended to, despite the immaturity and obvious lack of training, but it would still be better to not strain Erestor anymore than necessary. The treatment would hold for the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Erestor dozing from the exertion of the ride and himself banned from helping cook after the last time, Glorfindel sits and idly polishes his blade as he watches Cýrlinnaril about the camp. She is a curious thing, observing with intense concentration the way his soldiers clean their kill. She slaps away Lagron’s hand away when the scout tries to move her away from such gory things, which makes Astordil snicker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a caw, loud and strong, that draws Glorfindel’s attention. In the tree right by the clearing they’re in are two ravens, nearly identical except for the giant scar on one of the raven’s beaks. He is about to disregard them when he realizes their gazes are locked solidly onto Cýrlinnaril as she crosses the camp to beg some food off of Astordil. He begins to rise, sword at the ready, and sees from the corner of his eye that Astordil tenses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Corvo, Morrigan!” Cýrlinnaril calls, and Glorfindel is so startled to hear actual, intelligible words from her that he nearly staggers with the shock. There’s a ripple of concern and tension among the soldiers, as they see darkness descend upon the child, an instinct to fight for the young elfling rising in them all, but everyone--including him--freezes at the sound of delighted, childish laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cýrlinnaril folds herself down into a seat on the ground and does a bow at the waist that the birds copy before she feeds them. She giggles as they feed from her hands, and she coos softly at them. She says no words, just hums out absent melodies as she strokes both of the birds’ heads. They are familiar with each other, that much is obvious. They have learned to perform tricks for her to earn food, and she gives them affection with obvious ease. Glorfindel did not know ravens--or any bird, for that matter--could be so easily tamed, but it seems as if the Third Age keeps surprising him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is the one to bring her dinner, and his hope of getting a closer look at the birds is dashed when they take off at his approach. She takes the bowl with a surly attitude that should not be so endearing, and she is only made more adorable with the childish delight that overtakes her at eating such a basic stew. She asks for seconds, which Nengell is too weak to deny. Not that anyone would. Cýrlinnaril is so thin that they will need to be feeding her as often as possible. It is not right for an elfling to be so gaunt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of her second bowl, Glorfindel can see the way her shoulder slump and her eyes droop. She fights back a yawn as Astordil takes her bowl from her. The elfling crawls to Erestor’s head, since the frustrating ellon is still up despite being told multiple times to go to sleep. He said he was waiting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now Glorfindel sees--or hears--for what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cýrlinnaril is well named, he thinks first. Her song is quiet, barely a whisper, but plenty clear to elven ears so close by. Everyone in the camp pauses to listen to Cýrlinnaril sing in a language no one can identify. Her tone is soft and gentle, her voice light and sweet--like songbird, he thinks. The words may not have translations, but she sings her emotions clearly: of longing, but of a peace in that longing. Of love, but not quite loss. Not sorrow, but perhaps a nostalgia for something gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say he identifies with it would be a terrible understatement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She yawns in the middle of the song, so wide and long that Glorfindel sees a few others in the group unknowingly copy her. She wrinkles her nose at that, as if annoyed by such petty inconveniences of the body--</span>
  <em>
    <span>so much like Erestor! </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks--and continues singing. Glorfindel really shouldn’t find it as adorable as he does, watching them. Cýrlinnaril strokes Erestor’s hair back from his forehead to the beat of the song. As the last note fades, she lays down, curling her body around Erestor’s head protectively in sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, he realizes that his own skin has broken out into goose-bumbs. He was touched by such a beautiful song, yes, but there is something deeper in him that shivers at it. What did he think, before? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A girl with the voice like a songbird. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As if</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>she is Tinúviel come again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>happy solstice, my dears. i think i like updating on holidays......so i may continue that</p><p>as you can see, Glorfindel is going to be taking the brunt of the yearning/pining narrative because I headcanon him to be such a fucking sap but Erestor will get there sooner than you think (may already be there.......if in more subtle ways)</p><p>you also get to see Erestor's working theory on Cýrlinnaril's origins, but there are more to come in the next chapter :) so stay tuned</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Upon the arrival at Imladris, there is a commotion--which isn't unusual--and an elfling causing it--which is slightly unusual. More importantly, there are some discussions to be had of the elfling in question.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The sight of Imladris is a relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his position slumped into Glorfindel’s chest--which he is never going to live down--Erestor looks over his shoulder to see Cýrlinnaril’s reaction. She’s tilting her head like a bird, blinking in a not-quite-wide-eyed way but close to it. Observing, he realizes. He smiles slightly to himself, settling against Glorfindel’s chest. What was he expecting, the normal reaction of gasping awe and stunned expression from visitors?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They come into the open foyer, and Lord Elrond is there with several other healers, waiting for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lord--” Erestor starts, but Glorfindel doesn’t let him finish, with the sudden dismounting and then the gentle manhandling into a stretcher held by several of the bulkier healers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome back, Erestor,” Elrond says, with a wry twist to his lips as they all set off. “You gave us quite the scare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies for the inconvenience,” Erestor says back, in the flattest tone he can manage. The worry lines around Elrond’s eyes soften a bit, and after so long together, Erestor can read the sorrow that was just on the verge of being carved into his old friend’s face forever. “I will not do it again,” he says, in a softer tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are crossing through the threshold of the main hall when there’s a loud shout in an unfamiliar language and Erestor immediately sits up, despite the pain that rips through his side. He is upright, which is the important part, with a perfect birds-eye view of the open foyer below where he sees Cýrlinnaril bolt across the length of the stone, dodging and weaving around the outstretched hands of scouts and soldiers alike as she dashes into the halls with raw, animal panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that a--” a healer begins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cýrlinnaril!” Erestor calls, but she is long gone. He curses, struggling upright. Glorfindel tries to stop him, but Erestor shoves his hand away. “I need to get to her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not like that you aren’t,” Glorfindel, the infuriating voice of reason, says. Erestor knows he is correct, but it still burns to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since you did so well last time,” Erestor says. “Perhaps a reprise of your child-wrangling skills?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since you asked so nicely,” Glorfindel says, in the same snippy tone, but he smiles as he says it and actually takes off in a jog to catch up, which lets Erestor know that Glorfindel doesn’t actually hold his short temper against him this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last time?” Elrond asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When Glorfindel found me,” Erestor explains, waving off the hovering hands of the healers as he struggles to stand. Elrond, ever helpful, steps to his uninjured side and takes one of Erestor’s arms over his shoulders, to support his weight as Erestor moves in the direction of the commotion. “Rather, when Cýrlinnaril found them and brought them to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the girl is Cýrlinnaril? And where precisely did you find an elfling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the Trollshaws.” It is only due to the proximity that Erestor can feel Elrond tense at that bit of information. “Yes, and the scouts have claimed up and down that the clearing she was quite well established in has been entirely unnoticed for however long she has been there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Curious,” Elrond says, in a way Erestor knows to replace with any sort of explicative to get his true feelings across.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’ll go high,” Erestor says, which he knows because for all of her intelligence, her instincts are distinctly animal. They begin to ascend the nearest staircase when Arwen appears, looking bewildered and dressed in a very hasty manner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An elfing just leapt from my window seat into a tree,” she tells them and Erestor closes his eyes and asks Varda for strength. The ellith meets them halfway on the stairs and lays a gentle hand on Erestor’s cheek. “Welcome back, Erestor, I am glad to see you again,” she says and then, to her father: “I shall have Eithoriel set up the autumn rooms for our little guest, since I believe that is where my childhood clothes are stored. She shall need a bath as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor has spent 800 years watching this ellith grow and change, and still the similarities between her and her father always stun him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arwen sweeps away, calling for their chatelaine Eithoriel, and Erestor and Elrond continue their ascent. They reach the top of the stairs, with Erestor breathing heavily and feeling the blood from his side begin to seep into his bandages. He is already dreading the looks and censures he’ll have to deal with when Elrond discovers his wound has reopened. He barely gets the chance to think that before one of the healers who accompanied them--Iorthon, Erestor recognizes--steps in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, sir, we must get you to the healing wing!” he says, earnest and desperate and also quite easy to say no to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not until I can see that the girl is fine,” Erestor says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lord!” Iorthon says to Elrond, but Elrond--who has stepped away so rudely to let Erestor argue on his own--merely folds his arms and waits. At least he is reasonable about Erestor making his own choices. As of now though, Erestor has no patience for arguing though, not when the little forest kitten he picked up is running amok throughout Rivendell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move,” he says. “Or you will be moved.” Iorthon doesn’t flinch, which would have impressed Erestor at literally any other time, but as of right now only irritates him. Instead, he pushes at Iorthon a little, just to move him out of the way so he could finish climbing the steps, when Cýrlinnaril’s voice cuts through whatever protest was next rising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Erestor!” She had cried out, and her gaze locks onto his side in wide-eyed concern. She wriggles in Astordil’s grasp, until the lieutenant reluctantly releases her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cýrlinnaril,” Erestor says, but doesn’t get the chance to continue his scolding as she dashes over to his side, her hand immediately going up to check on his wound. She feels the blood and her expression drops into distraught horror and then to sheepish shame so quickly that it gives Erestor whiplash. She makes an unfamiliar sign, but the way she’s looking up at him so morosely tells him that she’s sorry for causing him pain. And just like that, Erestor finds himself immediately forgetting whatever scolding was just on the tip of his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lance of pain goes through him and he staggers into Iorthon, before Glorfindel reappears, like the perfectly timed hero he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that things get a bit hazy, and Erestor knows no more.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When he wakes, it is later in the evening, and Elrond is sitting at the side of his bed in an armchair so plush that Erestor knows it doesn’t belong in the healing halls. His liege-lord is calmly going through some parchment--granary reports, if Erestor’s upside-down reading skills are still intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you are gone for a year in Mithlond,” Elrond says. “And during your return trip your squadron was attacked by an orc war band. You disappear for a week, leaving my captain of the guard a morose wreck--” At this Elrond looks at him with a bland stare that conveys exactly what he thought about dealing with Glorfindel in such a state, before going back to his reports. “--And then reappear with a child that you and our other scouts claim came from the Trollshaws, despite our scouts having found no evidence of her existence beforehand, in a forest we patrol near daily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would like to say,” Erestor croaks out. “That I have nothing to do with Glorfindel’s handling of the situation.” Putting aside his paper, Elrond rises and helps Erestor sit at least partly propped up so that he may take a sip of water to soothe his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” Elrond says, with a blank expression. His casual concession of that point feels strange, but before Erestor can pinpoint what, precisely, Elrond is trying to imply, his liege-lord continues speaking. "I have met the child. Imperious, is my impression."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor thinks of how she effortlessly corralled him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would agree with that assessment,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She seems intelligent. Understood the concept of bathing at least.” Elrond’s gaze travels to Erestor’s side. “She must have learned how to stitch up a wound, albeit in a more rustic setting. She had skill. A healer’s touch in one so young is unusual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She must have been raised by someone, but I cannot deduce who,” Erestor says. “I believe the most likely answer is her being half-elven, likely born to a human mother from Haradrim or perhaps even Khand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elrond raises one eye-brow at Erestor’s theory, which is opening enough for Erestor to continue explaining his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She can speak in a language that sounds fully developed, and has songs that I do not recognize but she sings with familiarity. I pride myself on my familiarity with tongues and the fact that I do not recognize hers makes me suspect she must be from one of the two lands I know the least about. Her skin is much darker than those of any Eldar I’ve seen, outside of the Falmari and Silvan and a few Sindar, although those typically have darker hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which brings me to my suppositions of her father: a Sindar, I believe. For the fairness of her hair, which is a shade of pure white I have not even seen before but seems closest to the silvery shades found among Sindar of Lothlorien and Mithlond. And for her obvious love of and skill in song. Sindar are the most wide-spread of all the Eldar and there are pockets in every kingdom and they travel frequently, making a Sindar the most likely candidate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her name is very telling then,” Elrond says, offering Erestor another cup of water, which he takes gratefully. “A renewed singer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She sings often,” Erestor says, unable to explain how the name felt instantly right to him, in a way very few things ever felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed,” Elrond says, faintly amused. If he was going to speak, then his words are lost as the door to Erestor’s private healing room opens to admit Glorfindel and Astordil. The returned elf looks over at him first and Erestor can see the tension physically drain out of that large frame. Erestor has told him time and again to stop blaming himself when other people get injured, but trying to convince Glorfindel of that is like trying to bottle moonlight. Erestor resists the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no such restraint from Astordil, who does roll her eyes as if on Erestor’s behalf, but quickly slips into cool professionalism when Elrond gestures them forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You summoned us, my lord?” Glorfindel says, sketching a quick bow to Elrond, who waves off the formality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I wished to ask for your impression and suspicions of the girl’s origins. Aside from Erestor here, you are the ones who have spent the most time in her presence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a pause as both of the warrior elves recall their own impressions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Compassionate,” Astordil says, and looks a little startled at herself for speaking first. Her gaze darts between them, but her tension eases after Elrond gestures for her to continue. “She cared for Erestor all that time, did she not? And she cared for her birds and just this evening, she...asked after one of her homestead animals.” Astordil’s hand tightens on her sword. “She’s prone to panic as well. She has been alone for long enough that, if she ever were accustomed to others, that has long since gone away.” A wry smile quirks the guard lieutenant’s lips. “Utterly fearless too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any suspicions of her origins?” Elrond prompts and at that Astordil’s nose wrinkles in her confusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure. Her tanned skin and pale hair makes me think of the Falmari, and given that she was found to the west and not the east, I feel as if it’s likely she came from there.” Astordil pauses. “She knows how to survive in the woods, and obviously knows a bit of healing. Perhaps she was cared for by Men at one point? Perhaps Arnor? Although, I do not know if that’s likely. They would have informed us if they had found an elfling.” Ultimately, she sighs, giving a little shrug of her shoulders. “I do not know, my lord, this is outside my area of expertise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you do happen to find an expert in misplaced elflings,” Elrond says with a wry smile. “I ask that you do let me know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Astordil raises her eyebrows in Erestor’s direction and this time he really does roll his eyes as the three in the room smile at the implication. Expert. Hardly. He’s an expert in many things but elflings are not one. Not yet, anyways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you, Glorfindel?” Elrond says, turning to the once elf-lord.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ferocious,” the golden-haired elf says, obviously remembering her lack of hesitation in stabbing him. And also spitting on him, if Glorfindel’s story on the road was to be believed. “And independent. Quick on her feet and with her mind. She knows the Trollshaws better than any of our scouts, it feels. She seemed very used to being chased through the woods.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elrond’s lips thin at that and Erestor feels his heart stutter in useless fear at the knowledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She trained birds to be her companions, which shows she’s quite intelligent,” Glorfindel adds. “And according to Noendîn’s report of her homestead, she’s capable of taking care of herself, in a way no child should have ever had to endure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what do you suspect her origins are?” Elrond prompts. Here, however, Glorfindel pauses, which makes Elrond lean forward in his seat, from his previous relaxed position. “I can guarantee you, Glorfindel, that nothing that you say here will be more outlandish to believe than the idea of an elfing barely out of infancy has managed to survive in the woods without our knowledge for these many years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case,” Glorfindel says, in a deceptively light tone of voice that Erestor has learned to dread. “I suspect she’s a child of a Maia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor is distantly amused to see the rare sight of Elrond looking shocked, although he’s not so sure he’s dealt well with that information either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s her eyes,” Glorfindel says. “It’s such an unusual color, that gold. I have only seen such a shade once before and that was in Aman, before I set out to Mithlond. On the docks to see me off was a golden-eyed Maia in the service of Manwë called Eönwë.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the name, Elrond takes in a sharp breath that Erestor echoes. It has not been since the War of Wrath that Erestor had last heard that name. A Maia, greatest in arms, sent by the Valar to help the people of Middle Earth fight against Sauron’s forces. The very same war that caused Beleriand to be lost to the sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems unlikely, but not impossible,” Elrond says slowly, as if sounding out the words on his tongue and the idea in his brain. “The union of Eldar and Maiar has occurred before--” with Elrond being living proof of it, as his great-grandmother was the Maia, Melian, “--and in these times, unexpected things do seem to occur with greater frequency.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lord,” Astordil says, tone soft but respectful for the interruption. “Would we not have been aware of the coming of a Maia to Arda?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do not know how the Valar and their servants work, or how often they walk among us,” Elrond says. “But their power is undeniable, and I believe it is difficult for them to make themselves less than they naturally are. For them to have come into contact with one of the Eldar and joined in such a way with such pains of secrecy does not bode well for us.” He leans back into his chair with his fingers laced over his stomach, as he does when in deep thought. “Glorfindel’s reasonings are sound to me. There is something about the girl that feels both familiar and foreign at the same time. Her eyes are full of a fire and force that is more familiar to the race of Men, but her fëa feels adrift, like one ready to Sail.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor thinks that sounds like a half-elf to him, but he shall leave the final declaration to Elrond, the actual half-elven here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shall have to think on it,” Elrond declares. “For now, Glorfindel and Astordil, you are dismissed.” The two warriors bow before leaving the room, with Glorfindel throwing one last glance at Erestor over his shoulder. “Erestor, you must rest. Regain your strength.” He stands, adjusting his robes in one subtle movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, my lord,” Erestor says. “But, might I make a request?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Elrond says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve decided I would like to take your offer to move from the Main Hall to the house you mentioned last summer. I do believe I shall be needing the space from now on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Elrond smiles. “Of course, my old friend, consider it done.” Then, his liege-lord lays a hand on Erestor’s forehead: “Now stop stalling and go to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Erestor does.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HAPPY KWANZAA</p><p>I meant to post on the first day but my internet was down for like three days so, better late than never I suppose.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Glorfindel's day, the day after Cýrlinnaril's exuberant arrival.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cýrlinnaril is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not in her room the next morning, where Arwen had said she fell into an exhausted sleep. She’s not anywhere around her rooms either, wandering the halls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s just...gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel leaves the punishment of Galador to Astordil, and the fear that always comes from that is almost punishment enough, but he doesn’t care. Cýrlinnaril is gone. Erestor’s savior and the child that Erestor is already caring for has disappeared essentially under Glorfindel’s watch and that is utterly unacceptable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Glorfindel rouses every guard at the break of dawn and sends them on a search in Imladris, a search they join eagerly once they realize it is the new child that has gone missing. He sends a few scouts into the woods, just in case. He can’t bear to imagine the look on Erestor’s face if he has to tell him that they lost her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But hours slip by and dawn turns into morning and Glorfindel realizes he has to tell Erestor. His friend loathes being kept out of the loop, and even in his private healing room, he would have heard the commotion going on outside. As much as Glorfindel would like to hide, he knows he owes it to his friend to tell him what’s going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a heavy heart, he goes to Erestor’s healing room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knocks, but doesn’t hear a response. He squares his shoulders and enters in anyways. Erestor is already sitting up in bed, looking as wonderful as he always does to Glorfindel’s eyes. He still looks a little worn, but already much better than he did when Glorfindel first found him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glorfindel,” he greets and even that makes a curl of warmth envelop Glorfindel’s heart, as automatic and immediate as a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Erestor,” he says back, and throws himself into his next words. “Cýrlinnaril was not in her rooms this morning. I’ve sent out people to look for her, but I’ve yet to receive word. But I assure you, my friend, she will be found safe and hale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor makes an odd noise--something between a choke and a cough--which is concerning, but not as concerning as his immediate lack of response. No, instead, Erestor turns his head to the window, gazing out of it as if forlorn. Glorfindel’s heart sinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is concerning,” Erestor says. “Did you check for where her birds were?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Glorfindel says. “But I shall send a scout imme--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel jumps at the sudden shout and the small figure leaping out from behind the bed. His hand goes for his sword, before his eyes process what’s before him. The erstwhile missing Cýrlinnaril giggling openly and sounding like chiming bells, and Erestor’s own eyes alight with mirth as he tries to suppress his own laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ai!” he says, half scolding but the laughter wins out. The relief that floods Glorfindel is too strong for him to even think about being upset at the trick beyond the panic of the first few seconds. Rather, further reflection finds him delighted instead, that Erestor feels well enough enough to tease him and Cýrlinnaril appears comfortable enough to go along with jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light-hearted joy drops from Cýrlinnaril’s face after a moment and she makes a stuttering hissing sound at him and Glorfindel watches in curiosity as she turns to Erestor and begins to make other gestures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think she is trying to talk about a knife?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A knife?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Glorfindel says. “Yes, she had one on her. Tried to stab me with it.” He pulls it from her belt and, upon spotting it, the elf-child gestures him forward in a rather dominating manner. Erestor laughs, which buoys Glorfindel’s heart even more. “My apologies.” Glorfindel tells her as he hands the knife over, but she’s no longer paying attention to him as she inspects the blade and the new sheathe he had found to replace the old one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I noticed the blade in the Trollshaws,” Erestor says quietly. “Another puzzle piece.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Glorfindel nods. “I inspected it. It is not an elvish blade, but it is well made. The vines of it mimic the style of the Galadhrim, but they’re ivy leaves rather than mallorn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so? I was certain it was of elvish mak--NO!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor suddenly shouts and Glorfindel jerks once again, until he realizes he was shouting as his soon-to-be ward, who’s casually running her fingers on the edge of the blade. She makes defiant eye contact as she repeats the same motion, and now Glorfindel is the one to smother laughter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re a perfect match, truly. His contrary friend has picked up a contrary child to match. Glorfindel notes it to tease him more about it later.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he manages to escape the impromptu lesson, another twenty minutes have passed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel finds Astordil and has the search called off. She’s the one to suggest just leaving the girl in Erestor’s quarters and Arwen is the one to sign off on that, since Lord Elrond is lecturing at the Healing Hall today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And by midday, Astordil and he are in his office, going through the files that he had neglected in his search for Erestor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Captain,” she says, interrupting the silence. Glorfindel is only too happy to put his papers down to look at her and give her his full attention. She glances at him with an expression that says she knows exactly what he’s doing, but she doesn’t call it out as she continues. “I think we should find that sheep Noendîn mentioned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel pauses. “The...sheep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Noendîn mentioned one at the location that the child was found at. And just last night she mentioned her sheep. I believe it’s an animal dear to her, like those birds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mentioned? How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By mimicking a sheep’s baa,” she says, and then--to his delight--Astordil puts her hands up to her ears and makes several baa sounds, presumably repeating what Cýrlinnaril had shown her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Astordil,” he says, a grin unfurling across his face. “My dear Astordil, what a lovely performance! Why, who knew you had such untouched depths of talent? This must be shared!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles, which is a little unnerving, since Glorfindel was expecting a glare or threats of dismemberment, likely targeting his favorite member. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one will ever believe you if you tell them, Captain,” she says blandly and Glorfindel realizes abruptly that she is correct. If he attempted to tell anyone that the stoic, intimidating Vice-Captain of the Guard had imitated a sheep, he’d be sent immediately to the healers to get his head checked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You always ruin my fun,” he mutters, pouting a little bit. Then he gets an idea. “As an apology, you may accompany me while we go fetch the sheep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Astordil blinks at him, obviously confused. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now Glorfindel quite likes the idea. Finding Cýrlinnaril’s sheep and returning it to its owner is a splendid idea, since children get quite attached to their animals from what he can remember of the twins and Arwen growing up. Doing so can only earn him favor with the girl and with Erestor. It will serve as an apology of sorts, to letting her slip away, even though she was safe by Erestor’s side the whole morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel stands, heading immediately for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Captain!” is the protest but he hears Astordil groan and then fall into step behind him, following loyally as she always does.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Twelve hours later, Astordil is glaring as they set up camp in the dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take the position, my wife said,” she mutters, striking out a fire with such fury that Glorfindel thinks the earth might catch before the wood. “It is an honorable charge, she said. You and Lord Glorfindel hail from the same city and you might be of similar minds, she said. You won’t have to spend all day in the field like a common soldier would, she said, and now look.” Astordil fixes him with a glare, pointing around at them. They have only the bare minimum of supplies, since the ride took only a few hours and Glorfindel assumed it would be an easy enough mission. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead they wasted all their daylight searching and found nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, they did find the homestead, which they were resting in now, but the sheep was nowhere to be found.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad luck, Vice-Captain,” Glorfindel returns. By the now bright light of the fire, he gives food to the remaining rabbits, which they devour with haste. It has been several days for them and most have died off, but some are yet alive and they plan on bringing those back as well, if they can. Well, except for the three they’re having for dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad luck doesn’t cut it when the Captain of the Guard disappears again after just returning from an extended patrol,” Astordil says. “And yet worse when the idiot Vice-Captain goes with him instead of stopping him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, now,” he says. “Firstly, I was talking about how it was your bad luck that got you into this position, not mine. As well, we told Farrion, so your fellow Vice-Captain is aware of what is happening. We both know his competence and skill in command. The valley shall be fine for a single night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Astordil rolls her eyes at him and adds more wood to the flames, before sitting down and putting their dinner over the flames to roast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Farrion shouldn’t have to be competent in being responsible for the safety of the valley at all,” she says. “That’s my job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel snorts in laughter. “And my job is, what, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To look pretty, and you’re only barely passing muster, Captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share a grin at the familiar pace of trading quips and barbs, and for a moment Glorfindel misses Erestor so much that his chest aches with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Elbereth,” Astordil suddenly says and Glorfindel looks at her to see her rolling her eyes again. “And now I’ll have to stay with you as you yearn for and moon over Erestor back in Rivendell. Reunited only to be separated again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not--!” Glorfindel protests, aware his voice skids high and loud in the shock of her direct words. He clears his throat. “I do not moon over Erestor,” he says, in a much more reasonable tone and volume. He knows his face is warm from her claim, and while it may--perhaps--have some grain of truth in it, Glorfindel likes to believe he is capable of some subtlety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all, Captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are friends, nothing more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you say, Captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I do say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Astordil hums in acknowledgement, allowing the not-quite-argument to fall into silence as she rotates the makeshift spit to get the other side of the rabbits cooking. Glorfindel relaxes a bit. Astordil is not the type to want the last word--she ends more arguments with fists--and that soothes him. He does not quite know how he feels about her direct statements. After so long of working together and knowing each other, he is not surprised that Astordil might have picked up on some of the emotions he may or may not have for his friend, but Glorfindel can admit that it’s a little unnerving to be so directly confronted with it. Then again, Astordil is not known for her tact. In fact, she’s known for her distinct lack of it. Sometimes he wonders how such a child could have been born to Ecthelion’s house, but that hurts his head to think of so he tries not to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They eat their dinner in companionable silence and decide without speaking to sleep under the stars. The view is rather spectacular in this small clearing and Varda’s creations glitter like the most brilliant of jewels in a sky of velvet. It’s soothing, as it always is. Glorfindel’s breathing is just beginning to even out when Astordil speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I notice you did not deny yearning for Erestor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel groans.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>first post of the regular schedule :)</p><p>anyways, Astordil and Glorfindel are peak wlw/mlm solidarity and i love them for that </p><p>to those who are wary of elf ocs taking over this: don't worry, i'm only going to develop them enough to be believable and they have a purpose. granted, that purpose is mostly to make sarcastic comments and help our two idiots get together but that's still a purpose!!!!!</p><p>also: i'll be skipping forward a lot more in this fic than in Nothing Gold Can Stay. my reasoning being that Cyr is still young so every day creeps by for her, but for adults, time feels to move quicker. i feel like that's doubly true for adult elves. so don't be surprised when i don't have an exact match POV here for every chapter of Cyr's. i'm just going to be taking snapshots of what i consider important to see how Erestor and Glorfindel are doing/what they're thinking/how their relationship is developing in the background </p><p>anyways, hope u enjoyed :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erestor, Arwen, Elrond, and Glorfindel talk a bit more about the elfling. Erestor and Glorfindel have lunch.</p><p>Corresponds with Nothing Gold Can Stay chapter 16</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Even abed, Erestor works. He does this, of course, when Cýrlinnaril cannot see him, because she is fond of throwing his work papers into the mud outside the window if she finds him doing so, and thus, he works when Astordil takes the girl out to explore her new home. Meanwhile, Elrond, Arwen, and Glorfindel are kind enough to adjust their own schedules to meet him in his sickroom and although he loathes being away from the council meetings themselves, Erestor knows better than to push himself. With Elrond, Glorfindel, and now Cýrlinnaril watching him, Erestor doubts he will ever get back up to his previous productivity rates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there anything left to discuss?” he asks, polite but knowing the answer. They have already reviewed all the necessary documents and made approvals or demanded changes to the schedule for projects and maintenance, as well as completed a rough draft of next year’s agricultural rotations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One thing,” Arwen says, folding her hands neatly in her lap. It is less a tell of her worry and rather a signal of it. It puts Erestor--and the other two ellon in the room--a bit on edge, but the lack of tension in her voice keeps them from outright concern. “I wish to speak of your foundling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it ridiculous of him to feel a rush of pride at that, at the thought of Cýrlinnaril? It has been two weeks since their arrival in Imladris and nearly every second of it has seen Cýrlinnaril by his side. She has been devouring every scrap of language he can feed her, soaking it in and contextualizing it with such ease it is astonishing. Her previous anxiety and fear of coming to this new place is being washed away with her growing familiarity and it is soothing to see more carefree expressions on her face, rather than the constant serious, stern mien she had when they were in the Trollshaws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that is true,” Elrond says. “I did mean to inform you, Erestor, that your house has been completed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Glorfindel perks up. “We are neighbors again, Erestor!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Erestor is confused as to why this would matter before he realizes. Glorfindel, for his status, was given a house as soon as the residential district was completed, although he normally stayed in the Homely House itself, as Erestor did, to remain closer to his office. For a long while, their rooms had been in the same hall, until he had to move out so that his rooms could be refitted for an extra archival space. How could he have forgotten how fiercely Glorfindel pouted when that happened? Although upon reflection, he was quite the brat to deal with at the time so maybe Erestor forgot it on purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As well,” Arwen says. “I have altered the census to include her into your household. Given her unknown heritage, I have listed you as her guardian.” A sly smile that Erestor finds remarkably familiar, although he is accustomed to seeing it on her father. “Of course, according to the old laws, if five years go by without claim, you will be considered her father by right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Erestor says. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor had never considered himself the most family-oriented of elves, although he did quite enjoy tutoring Arwen when she was young. Elrohir and Elladan were brats on occasion, but even they were endearing in their own way. He had certainly never envisioned a future for himself that was anything like being a father, considering himself ill-suited for marriage with any elf he has ever met. He knows he is rather cold and distant from the general population of Imladris; a reputation that he has encouraged as he is one of the authorities in the valley and Glorfindel has enough friendliness in him to more than make up for whatever social grace Erestor eschews. He knows he is too devoted to his work to suit the tastes of any reasonable individual and has thus never deluded himself into thinking of a one-day where he might be wed and raising his own child. Truth be told, he had expected to work until it was his time to sail and he was content with a life like that, as long as he had his good friends, good books, good food, and good wine to sustain him throughout the long years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now, in the most unexpected of places, a child is in his care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor knows logically of the responsibilities that will entail, having been right at Elrond and Celebrían’s side when they raised their three children, and--more recently--having gleaned information off of child-rearing notebooks from the library, but he finds he does not mind the added workload as much as might have once, years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, he is rather excited to see how Cýrlinnaril will grow and develop, and is just as eager to have a hand in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any news of her origin?” Arwen asks and Erestor pauses in his musings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None,” Elrond says. “I have written Galadriel and Círdan, asking of any knowledge they would have on this, as well as our own suppositions, but both have reported no unusual circumstances in their domains. They have promised to look into it in more detail, but it truly seems as if this girl appeared from thin air.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that really is the crux of it, is it not? Erestor knows his own affection for Cýrlinnaril is deeper than what a mere three weeks of association should entail, regardless of how she has saved his life, and her unconfirmed origins makes him wary to grow any closer to her. He has lost many people over these long years, and there is a fear deep within his soul at accepting her as his own and then having to lose her. He dares not risk his weary heart for a claim that is shaky as best. It is telling how that mere thought pains him, but Erestor is nothing if not resolved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He will have a hand in rearing her and try his best to constrain his parental affection. But if the five years pass and her lineage remains a mystery, then he will be free to truly take her into his household as the daughter he never knew to expect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did notice, that first night she was here, that she seemed startled by her appearance in the mirror,” Arwen says and that brings up Erestor short.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” he asks, and knows his confusion is shared with the three others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just what I said,” Arwen says. “After her bath, she ate and then acquiesced to my brushing her hair. When she sat at the dressing table, she recoiled from her reflection and immediately went to bed. It startled her very badly. I fear she might not--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might not what?” Elrond asks, in a gentle and coaxing tone for the sudden reluctance on his daughter’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must say first that her reactions seemed two-fold,” Arwen says. “First she was silent and fascinated by her reflection, like one looking upon a mirror for the first time. Then she caught sight of her ears and was startled enough to retreat to curling under the bed covers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her...ears?” Glorfindel asks, after a pause from all of them. Erestor does not need to ask to sense the confusion that all of them feel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps…” Elrond starts and then turns to Erestor. “How did she act, when you first interacted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor remembers his own shock above all else, but he takes a moment to recall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She seemed...cold. Exasperated at times, but always with a sense of distance. She cared for my wounds, but did not start warming up to me until after I named her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Elrond leans back in his seat. “And you, Glorfindel? What was her reaction to you and your squad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Extreme wariness,” Glorfindel answers. “Suspicion. Perhaps even traces of fear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor traces Elrond’s line of thought. “Do you think--what with her caution and her panic thus far--that she is afraid of elves?” His tone is incredulous, a bald reaction he surely should be able to control but cannot in the sheer disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he should not be so surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was young when the First Kinslaying happened, and older when the others occurred, but he remembers the feeling of horror and fear that--even after all these years--cannot be erased from his mind. Fear of elves, he thinks, somewhat bitterly, is a perfectly natural reaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is afraid of something, that is certain, but whether it is all elven or merely a select individual, that remains to be seen.” Elrond says. “As it is, she is undoubtedly distraught merely by being alone for however long. While I wish to assess her health and her past personally, that will be a struggle as she lacks the speaking skills and comprehension required for that. In the meantime, we must acclimatize her to life in Imladris. Having a schedule to follow--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And food,” Arwen says, likely remembering how often Cýrlinnaril manages to find food and is constantly eating it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--and food,” Elrond concedes. “Both of these will help her spirit and mind recover from whatever afflicts her. It is a stop-gap measure, but it is the best we can do until she is able to communicate with us properly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long do you think it will take her to get used to Imladris?” Glorfindel asks, speaking Erestor’s most pressing internal question, aside from the usual ones of her origins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That I cannot say,” Elrond says, sighing. “It depends on her. It shall be a rough beginning, that I know, as she adjusts to all of the changes going on. All we can do at this point is wait and watch, and help wherever we can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is well within our capabilities, I should say,” Arwen says, a slight smile on her face. “And Erestor, I do predict you will be busy in these coming weeks to adjust for the time you were gone and I will be pleased to assist you in Cýrlinnaril’s education.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you,” Erestor says, dry as you please but still smiling at her mien of generous innocence. “I am sure this offer comes only from the good of your heart, and has nothing to do with enjoying the fact you are no longer the youngest in Imladris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not both?” she asks, unperturbed. “I do so delight in efficiency.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did you get that from, I wonder?” Elrond says, faux-pondering, as everyone else in the room laughs. Erestor feels nothing but pride from the statement--yes, he is the one who taught their dearest Evenstar about maximizing efficiency and it will serve her well when she takes the mantle of Lady of Imladris one day, hopefully far into the future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light hearted response on Erestor’s tongue dissipates when the door to his sickroom opens and Cýrlinnaril bounds in, arms full of snacks that all of Imladris has become fond of giving her--Erestor is not the only one so deeply bothered by such a thin elfling--with a cheerful expression on her face. Astordil is behind her, leaning against the doorframe and looking slightly bemused by the whole thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well met!” Cýrlinnaril says. “I have food!” She empties her catch onto his side table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you do,” Erestor responds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Erestor, eat,” she says and picks up a bit of spiced cookie and puts it in his hands. She goes around the room, giving everyone present cookies. Erestor does feel a flush of affection when she presses a second into his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he feels exasperation as she immediately climbs out the window, calling for her birds so she can share with them too.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Arwen is--as usual--correct in how busy he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he was gone a year, but he has systems in place to prevent entanglements from happening. As per usual, the mistakes he sees are simply a comedy of errors from one end of the chain of command to the other. No one in Imladris has quite the eye or memory for detail like Erestor does, and while their chatelaine, Eithoriel, is eminently talented and practical, she has her own duties to attend to. Hanneth--the personal assistant he left here--is getting close to competence, but she does fare better with a more narrowed overview of groups, rather than the entirety of the valley. The new hire Melpomaen shows potential, if his notes on the most recent report on the production of wine in the valley is to indicate competence, which it normally does. Erestor does plan to train him up a bit more under Hanneth, to see if he is suitable for a position like that. Súlher, Elrond’s current assistant, is about ready to sail and will need a replacement soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor is pouring over a report from the agricultural section about soil quality, when Glorfindel enters. He knows it is Glorfindel because the door opens without anyone knocking and only one person in the entire settlement does that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am busy,” Erestor says, knowing that it is a hopeless endeavor. Glorfindel’s office is on the opposite end of the building, and if he is already here, that means the great golden oaf has determined for himself a set course of action and nothing shall sway him from it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are going to lunch, Erestor,” Glorfindel says. “Come on, put the report down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not have time,” Erestor says, so familiar with this script by now that he can, actually, concentrate through Glorfindel’s voice, which normally draws his attention no matter what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is lunchtime,” Glorfindel says. “And I saw you this morning when you gave Cýrlinnaril half of your meal.” From the corner of his eye, Erestor sees his friend round the desk before Glorfindel pulls out the chair. “You are still recovering and you need to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot,” Erestor says, clinging to his report and glaring up at his golden-haired friend. “I need to finish my work load so that I am in time to bring Cýrlinnaril to the dining hall for supper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glorfindel raises an eyebrow, before folding his arms. “I see. How about this, my dear friend? Let us go grab some lunch and see if we cannot tempt Arwen and Cýrlinnaril out for a picnic for this own meal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor...considers that. It is not as if the lesson room that Arwen is using is too far away. It would be quite feasible, actually, to have a picnic like Glorfindel’s described. He could get an update from Arwen on how well Cýrlinnaril’s lessons are coming along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Erestor says, and looks away so he does not have to see Glorfindel’s intolerably smug face. “But you will go grab the meal, and I will go to Arwen and Cýrlinnaril to invite them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agreed,” Glorfindel says and then marches over to the door, politely holding it open as Erestor sets his desk to rights and exits. It is then that Erestor’s eyes alight on the bench right outside his office door, upon which a basket already sits, smelling of warm bread and the faint scent of herbs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clever,” Erestor says. He wants to be more irritated than he actually feels, but as of the moment, he is just slightly bashful that he has become so easy to predict over the ages of their friendship. As well, he feels a familiar flicker of affection for Glorfindel, for knowing him so well. By which, he means, it is good to have a friend who knows him so intimately. Soothing, Erestor can admit to himself, to be known so well and still given such easy affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they head to the room where Arwen’s lessons are, Erestor and Glorfindel chat about their day so far, although Erestor does quite dominate the conversation this time around, grousing at how many people are protesting their assignments for the coming summer months. When they arrive, however, they find the room empty. An inquiry with the nearest guard--whom Glorfindel knows immediately, if his call of Arasser is to be believed--informs them that Arwen has taken her charge to the library and that they’ve already eaten, since Arwen had apparently already taken the girl on a picnic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Erestor says. “It is a shame your clever plan has been dashed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet it hasn’t,” Glorfindel says, taking Erestor’s hand in his and dragging him out into one of the gardens. “We might be missing two lovely ellith, but we can still have a meal at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor thinks about rejecting that, of going right back to his office to get some work done, but by then Glorfindel is pulling out a well folded blanket and laying it out on the grass and has begun to unpack the meal. Then Glorfindel smiles up at him, warm and golden, and holds a hand out to gesture at the meal spread he’s so proudly laid out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well? Take a seat!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erestor sighs, but does as he is told. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has almost never been able to reject a request from Glorfindel, so long as it didn’t interfere with duty, and it hardly makes sense to start now.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Erestor and Glorfindel: we're not involved<br/>also Erestor and Glorfindel: have lunch dates every day</p><p>who do they think they're clowning</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Glorfindel thinks about Cýrlinnaril over breakfast, and comforts Erestor's fears at night. And then, it is breakfast again, and night again, and Glorfindel cannot dream of asking for more. (But dream of more, he does).</p><p>Corresponds with Nothing Gold Can Stay chapters 18 through 21</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If Glorfindel knew nothing about Cýrlinnaril--nothing about her apparent abandonment, or her compassion, or her intelligence, or about how she saved Erestor’s life--he thinks he would like her if only because she makes sure Erestor eats.</p><p>Glorfindel’s habit of coming over to Erestor’s rooms in the morning had started not long after the construction of Imladris had finished, at least in the central area. At first it was just because their rooms were so close and they encountered each other in the morning on the way to the dining hall, but then it was because they were meeting each other for the express purpose of meeting. As they grew closer, Glorfindel started realizing that Erestor...really needed assistance in the mornings. He was simply awful at waking up on time if Glorfindel wasn’t there to serve as a reminder. </p><p>As well, he is especially bad at remembering to eat. Glorfindel struggled for years to get the stubborn councilor to eat more than a bird would, but has been met with only scattered success.</p><p>Cýrlinnaril, however, seems to do it as easy as breathing.</p><p>“Erestor, eat,” she says, putting another slice of toast onto his plate. It is breakfast time, and Erestor is making a whole-hearted effort to ensure that the girl gets a full,hearty meal at every mealtime. She eats as she always does--ravenously, giving Erestor the fear that she will one day unhinge her jaw to swallow down more--but she always, always watches for Erestor and is sure to always feed him. Erestor cannot stand to not accept her offerings, and eats without complaint. Somehow, he never looks too overwhelmed by the amount he has to eat, and again it strikes Glorfindel how clever the girl is. Her bright eyes are always watching--weighing, measuring, calculating. It’s a haunting look on a child that should have known nothing but sweetness and light, but Glorfindel finds himself painfully grateful for it. For her careful eyes on Erestor, for another person like himself who loves the ellon beyond what words could ever tell.</p><p>At times when he recalls how too-sharp, too-bright, too-brilliant Cýrlinnaril is, he wonders what in her past could have made her that way. It’s a mystery they have yet to parse through, but it’s obvious she’s been so affected in her scant years. Her treatment of food is the most obvious--she devours quickly, as if any hesitation will mean someone snatching it from her mouth. Glorfindel has known hunger the way he knows Cýrlinnaril has, but he was always on the battlefield when that has happened, never on his own, where survival itself was a battle. He admires her greatly for it, as his heart mourns that it was something she had to learn, and he knows that despite her reticence in associating with the people of Imladris, her heart must be good and kind because she gives her precious food freely.</p><p>Anyone with that sort of high regard for Erestor is well marked in Glorfindel’s book. </p><p>She never shares her food with him, but Glorfindel doesn’t mind. She is obviously discerning enough to realize that Erestor needs food more. </p><p>Cýrlinnaril shows her affection in other ways though--much like Erestor, he notes with amusement, as he sees her on the swing she made for him a few days ago. It is a lovely place to relax, underneath the branches of the tree, enjoying the spring evenings. Glorfindel has taken to drinking his evening cup of tea, perched upon the seat and reveling in the night air. Sometimes, he risks a glance over to the house beside his, a glance through the bay windows and into the home of Erestor and his charge, where they often can be found sitting before the fireplace, with Erestor reading to her a slew of books.</p><p>It is soothing, as warm as the tea in his hands.</p><p>Both help him fall asleep just a bit easier.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Time slips past and the Lady Celebrian and the twins return to Imladris to the celebration of all, except for Erestor and Cýrlinnaril. </p><p>Glorfindel attends the welcome back feast for only as long as strictly polite before making his way back home, determined to check on his friend and his charge. He had heard that Cýrlinnaril had once again made a frantic run through the halls of Imladris, and that Erestor had immediately left the rest of his afternoon duties to care for her. He has also heard--and seen for himself--the absolutely miserable state that the youngest twin Elladan was in, despite the normal euphoria he normally has upon returning home from his grandmother’s realm. </p><p>Glorfindel does not think those two incidents are unconnected.</p><p>He sheds the outer layer of his more formal robes at home, changes into the more comfortable and practical tunic and breeches combination he favors, and makes his way to Erestor’s place when the moon is at its peak. As he’s predicted, his friend sits before a low burning fire, a bottle of wine uncorked and half drunk, with an expression on his face that is conflicted and partway to distraught.</p><p>Glorfindel goes to his friend’s side, kneels before him.</p><p>“Erestor, would you like to speak of it?” he asks, gentle, offering. Sometimes Erestor likes to speak, other times he retreats to cold silence, but either way, Glorfindel will not leave him be, not when he’s like this.</p><p>“She was scared,” Erestor finally says. “She was so scared. She was trembling, Glorfindel. I felt her stitch my wound without hesitation as I thrashed, but she was so frightened by a pursuit that she--”</p><p>Glorfindel feels the blood drain from his face.</p><p>“Elbereth,” he says, and the guilt that’s rising in him is crushing, because did he not do the same? Chase the girl through the woods? Did he not note that day, how accustomed to running through the woods she seemed to be?</p><p>Erestor’s hand covers his, both grounding for him, but seeking his own comfort as well. </p><p>“I do not know how to support her, when I do not even know what is wrong,” Erestor confesses. “It doesn’t feel like anything I do is enough.”</p><p>“It is,” Glorfindel says immediately, because the thought of Erestor not being enough for anyone is simply impossible to believe. “Erestor, you are trying and you are loving. That is enough.”</p><p>“Not enough,” Erestor says, taking another sip of his wine. “Glorfindel, she said she feels safe around me. I can’t--” He fists a hand in his hair, grip tightening until his knuckles turn white. “I can’t <em> fail </em> her.” His voice breaks on the word. </p><p>Glorfindel’s hand comes up, wrapping gently around Erestor’s that has an iron clasp around the strands of his midnight-dark hair. Slowly, carefully, he untangles Erestor’s grip, pulling the ellon’s hands into his own. Cautiously, he draws Erestor off of his chair, into Glorfindel’s arms.</p><p>Comfort only, for a friend.</p><p>“You are enough, Erestor,” he says. “Cýrlinnaril herself said she thought you were safe, did she not? She is not a child to mince words, although she does not have many to mince at the moment.”</p><p>Erestor lets out a laugh that sounds half like a sob. Glorfindel holds him a bit tighter, feels Erestor’s hands fist into the fabric of his shirt over his back.</p><p>“You have support, Erestor,” Glorfindel says. “I will do whatever is in my power to help you. Arwen has promised her assistance as well, has she not? And Elrond is ever your friend, who would grant any wish of yours he had the power to grant.”</p><p>“I know,” Erestor says, sighing, and finally relaxing into Glorfindel’s hold. “I know.”</p><p>And so they sit, for a few hours, until both their heartbeats are steady.</p><p>Eventually, Erestor pulls away--cheeks wine-flushed and eyes red and bright from tears. Glorfindel’s pitiful heart seizes at the sight. </p><p>“You should sleep,” Erestor murmurs, already standing. “As should I.”</p><p>“Yes,” Glorfindel says, because resisting any of Erestor’s suggestions is an exercise in futility. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The next morning dawns and with it brings Elladan--obviously lacking even the scant amounts of sleep that even full grown Eldar require--who is loitering before Erestor’s door still in his clothes from last night’s banquet and with a small harp in his hands.</p><p>“What in the world are you doing?” Glorfindel asks, and it is really more representative of his lack of attention than it is to Glorfindel’s stealth that the younger ellon nearly drops his harp in surprise. There is a moment of wide-eyed, open-mouthed staring, before Glorfindel crosses his arms and fixes him with a stern look. Elladan shakes himself and thrusts out the harp into Glorfindel’s arms.</p><p>“Apology gift,” Elladan blurts out. “I heard the--ah, I heard from Arwen that the girl sings and that Erestor wanted to give her lessons. So I thought, she must need an instrument. And I am really, very sorry to have frightened her.” </p><p>He is rambling, as he tends to do when nervous, and despite the undercurrent of dissatisfaction Glorfindel feels, Elladan’s childhood habit is enough to endear him to the boy once more. </p><p>“--did not dare enter, since Erestor would gut me, but also because I do not wish to scare her again--”</p><p>“Peace, Elladan,” Glorfindel says, stepping closer and putting a hand on the younger ellon’s head. “I will bring your gift, with your regards, and act as your intermediary with this issue.”</p><p>Elladan’s shoulders loosen, barely noticeable, but enough for Glorfindel to note the amount of tension the other was feeling.</p><p>“I just don’t want Erestor to hate me,” Elladan confesses. “Or the girl. Arwen says she’s sweet.” </p><p>Glorfindel pushes down a smile at the obvious hint of nostalgia in the ellon’s tone. He understands where it’s coming from--it is far from the first time that the appearance of Cýrlinnaril has prompted those in Imladris to think of the last time a young girl roamed the halls. While Cýrlinnaril is not quite the well-behaved delight that Arwen was, there is still a gaiety to her that is infectious and adored by everyone who comes across her. </p><p>Like a feral cat coming to love you, Astordil had once said, and Glorfindel finds that it is a remarkably apt comparison. </p><p>And like all feral cats, she does quite like gifts.</p><p>Glorfindel takes the burden from Elladan’s arms, and the younger elf bows with gratitude before taking off. Newly burdened, Glorfindel sighs, straightens his shoulders, and enters Erestor’s house for what will undoubtedly be an interesting breakfast.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>That night, Glorfindel learns three things in rapid succession.</p><p>One, that Cýrlinnaril had apparently disappeared again and no one had told him.</p><p>Two, that she is apparently a musical prodigy on the harp--which, considering her history, doesn’t surprise him as much as it seems to have startled Erestor.</p><p>Three, when Erestor is flushed from wine and exhilaration, the blush spreads down to his chest. </p><p>This last bit of knowledge would delight Glorfindel in that terrible guilty way most things about Erestor delights him, but with Erestor so obviously enjoying speaking of Cýrlinnaril and her prodigious skill, Glorfindel cannot even muster the usual sort of pained longing that’s been his companion for so long.</p><p>“And she played without a single stumble, Glorfindel!” says Erestor, proud and happy and so, so beautiful. For once, they are at his own house, with Cýrlinnaril fast asleep at Erestor’s residence. They had retreated here so that Erestor could speak about Lindir’s assessment of Cýrlinnaril’s skill. </p><p>“Lindir looked absolutely stunned,” Erestor continues. The goblet in his hand remains steady, not a single drop spilling even as he gestures. “He looked more surprised than the day Arwen decided to stop taking music lessons to learn the sword.”</p><p>Glorfindel remembers that day. </p><p>Actually, he would rather not. </p><p>He had gotten a stern talking to about being careful with Arwen while she was training from all three overprotective members of her family. Only Elrond had spared him a similar speech. But, Glorfindel acknowledges, that is likely because he already knew that Erestor himself had given him the most thorough rundown of threats and such if Arwen came to undue harm while training.</p><p>She hadn’t, because as much as Glorfindel’s terrible friends love to joke, he is actually quite good at fighting and teaching.</p><p>As Erestor continues to brag (there really is no other word for it, really) about his child, Glorfindel watches him, happy to see his old friend so eager and excited about life again. For a while--after Eregion, then the Battle of Dagorland, the Seige of Barad-dur, and the death of King Gil-galad--Erestor had found very little to smile about, or be eager for.</p><p>Glorfindel thinks that it is due the tender attentions of his friends in Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian and himself and in Erestor’s own adherence to duty that kept him from sailing after those seven years of war that even Erestor--a councillor by duty and scholar at heart--had to take up a blade and fight in. It is perhaps selfish of Glorfindel to think, but he is glad that Erestor did not go to Aman for healing, although he would have seen his friend off with a smile if he decided to go. He is glad that Erestor decided to stay, to try again. He is glad that Cýrlinnaril has stumbled across him, or him upon her, and that these two had found each other. </p><p>And Glorfindel hopes that maybe, perhaps, Erestor has started his healing right here, in Arda.</p><p>Glorfindel just wishes he could be a bigger part of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter was so hard to write, every section was a struggle and i refuse to look at it any longer. Glorfindel kept trying to turn moody on me when this is supposed to be light hearted fun!!!! and then he managed to get that in at the very end, the bastard!!! this is why i like Erestor better, at least with him i can ramble about glass making in Rivendell without having to deal with stupid feelings *shudders in horror*</p><p>anyways. hope you enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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